


Lullabies to sing awake

by Lebellerose



Series: Love in convoluted times [2]
Category: The Voice (US) RPF, The Voice RPF
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, mentions of past abusive relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-07-16 16:22:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7275166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lebellerose/pseuds/Lebellerose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How do you fight darkness when it creeps in to your heart?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lullabies to sing awake

**Author's Note:**

> All events are fictional, no harm intended to any of the parts involved. This is merely a "what if things were different in another world". As such let's pretend the boys are not in any relationship with women (this counts for the previous part of the series as well).  
> Hope you like it! Don't forget to tell me how you felt about this work in the comments :).  
> Again, english is not my first language and I've no beta readers so there may be a mistake or two out there :P.

It’s dark. So dark he cannot even see his hands, or anything, really. He opens and closes his eyes futilely. There’s not the faintest ray of light anywhere. The moon and stars are absent. No street lights either. So maybe he is not outside. Yes. He must be in a closed up room. Some kind of cellar, perhaps. Or just an hermetically sealed place. Is it soundproof? He tries speaking but inmediately realizes he can´t. His throat feels dry and raspy, like sandpaper. The best he can manage is a tiny cough. Great. How is anyone gonna come help him like this? If he could leave just like that, he would. Problem is his wrists and ankles are tied. And whoever it was that did it knew damn well their knots. He could distintcly feel the rope burning his flesh and the blood in his limbs stalling, struggling to flow uninterrupted.

Under him he senses soft fabric getting crumpled thanks to his movements, and he gathers he’s laying on a bed. Possibly. Since he can’t move freely he wriggles forward (wherever forward is), to try and figure out his surroundings a bit more. Being technically blind and thus having no sense of space of course he falls to the floor. A soft thud is heard, but nothing else. The muffled sound may well confirm his theory about noise isolation. “Cause this situation wasn’t creepy enough”, he thinks while wincing. Wooden pannels make for very poor cushioning. In fact, he will have some nice bruises come tomorrow. He knows it. 

What he also knows is that he is scared. Alone, bound, and left to rot away in the most abyssmal darkness. He takes in air in shallow gasps, and finds stagnation slipping in his lungs. It feels viciuos to breathe so he tries not to. He doesn’t want to welcome the rarefied atmosphere inside him but soon he’s choking. Asfixiation wouldn’t be a nice way to go. No choice left, then. He respires. The reason he retches a second later is because he can’t stand the bile boiling in his stomach. His guts churn like he has been poisoned, and his body is shaking and sweating profusely as he dry heaves.  
Ten minutes later it is exhaustion that which forces him to ease up a little. His body stops trembling slowly until it’s still again. It helps that moving could also mean smearing his own puke all over himself. Neither the heat nor the sensation that something vile is in his guts leave him, though. He tries to organize his thoughts. To forget about his crippling fear and get himself out of the mess he’s in. Maybe if he wriggles some more he’ll reach a door. He’d have to untie the knots binding his arms and legs, however. So he gives it another shot. Struggles long and hard against the ropes. The effort makes him sweat even more than he already has, fat drops running down his forehead, his shirt dampening as the seconds go by. He doesn’t quit trying to break free. He can’t. For there’s an ominous thought in his head. “Something wicked this way comes”, whispers a silky voice with a mocking tone. Which only causes him to panic even more. His heart is beating so fast he feels it in his mouth. And he’s about to vomit again, yet stops by a close call. ‘Cause, really, he has no time. He’s painfully certain of the “thing” ‘s proximity. Nevermind that he has no empirical proof of such assertion. There’s a deeper, intrinsic knowledge ingrained in his bones, written on his skull. “It” aproaches. “It” is coming for him. Action needs to be taken now. 

He bites the chord that bounds his wrists in an attempt to tear it just to end up with blood in his teeth. Next he turns around and tries to use the bed frame as an improvised saw. He can’t find any sharp edge much as he endeavors to. Spends what seems like an eternity doing so. Or it may have been merely five minutes that passed. It is extremely difficult to tell. He’s been disorientated since he awoke to this crushing dakness. At present the mix of frustration and dread building inside him come to a peak and force him to fight back tears. He gulps down the salty liquid. “Come on, it’s no time for crying, you gotta think of a way out”, he scolds himself. Nonetheless, before he can do anything else, he hears the sound of footsteps getting near.

Oh. So it’s not “something”. It’s “someone”. And they’re walking fast. Perhaps they came to his aid? But he discards the idea. The macabre voice is repeating it’s phrase. It is definitive. Dangerous psycho it is. So what does he do know? Why, panic like no other man has. Panic and hide under the bed praying he’s not seen. He’s shaking violently, his teeth are clattering, sweat running all over his skin (will there be any water left in him if his pores keep on releasing it like that?); and his heart, his heart is galloping towards distant lands, apparently. One’d say his breathing would be ragged, but he’s not sure he actually is. The burning sensation in his lungs is telling. Fuck. Everything’s spiralling out of control. The shitstorm is looking him square in the eyes and his hands are very literally tied. Awesome. Wonderful. Dandy. How is that he can retain his sarcasm in the wake of certain doom? God only knows. 

The tiny shreds of humour he manages to experience evaporate as he hears the footsteps come to a halt. He closes his eyes tightly, willing himself to occupy as little space as possible. Or simply disappear. 

Then, the sound of a doorknob turning. And a loud prolonged creak. Surely the door is old, rusted. Silence. Nothing. Seconds pass slowly like a tree reluctantly shedding its leaves in autum. S……i……l…….e……….n……………c………………………e.  
S……………i………………l……………….e………………..n……………………..c…………………………e. Calm. Quiet. Stillness. Oh, isn’t this like being buried beforehand? Darkness and a dead silence. He cannot hear his own respiration.

Is he really not alone in the room? 

“Ha”.  
Who laughed?

Suddenly big hands grab his ankles and mercilessly pull him from under the bed. He screeches, eyes snaping open. They widen. Good Lord. He screams again.

“NO! NO, NO! ……..GET AWAY FROM FROM MEE!”.

The tall figure looming over him smiles crookedly, moves half a step back before lunging forward, fist ready to connect with its target. But he cannot move away from the attack. His body shut down, doesn’t respond. This it. Game over. He’s gonna die.

“AAAAAAAAHHHHHH”.

He wakes up yelling. Fear still coursing through his veins. He sits on the bed breathing heavily. The shirt he’s wearing is completely drenched in sweat. He rocks himself back and forth, arms holding his legs, face resting on his knees, wanting to erase the uneasiness the nightmare left. Memories he’s been trying to forget (ignore) resurface. He’s about to cry.

“Adam”, a voice with a familiar, sweet, if somewhat preocupied country twang speaks. “What’s wrong? What happened?”.

Adam raises his head to see Blake standing by the bed, looking at him. He seems worried. Brow furrowed and all.

“Adam”, his partner repeats, “are ya alright?”.

He doesn’t want to trouble his lover. Doesn’t want to admit what he’d dreamt about. That certain thoughts are currently plaguing his mind. That maybe he hasn’t made much progress. That he’s as weak as ever and damn if it doesn’t sting. He feels like he’s back to square one. This feeble, pathetic thing he was. Probably has always been.

“I’m fine”, he answers putting on a half-hearted smile to ease the other man’s concerns. 

Of course Blake sees right through this blatant lie, sits next to Adam, throws an arm around his shoulders, and proceeds to hug him tightly. The country star doesn’t utter a single word. Simply holds him against his chest. As if to say that it’s okay, he understands what’s going on and he’s there for him. Tears well up in the pop star’s eyes, but still he refuses to cry. It takes him accidentally letting out a tiny sob and thus having Blake tightening his grip for Adam to finally burst out crying. Burying his face in the nook of Blake’s neck, he bawls like a baby for a good five minutes. During that time his partner just holds him and soothingly rubs his back in circles. 

After a while the frontman naturally stops, feeling a bit better. A nice sort of empty, like the giant lump in his throat is there no more. He closes his eyes. Chooses to enjoy the warmth of his boyfriend’s embrace. Vanishes any thought that’s not his cowboy from his mind. How wonderful it is to feel this safe and cared for!

Suddenly he hears a humming in his ear.

“Really, Blake, now? You can´t be singing what I think you are in the middle of the night. Lay it off, don’t want the neighbours complaining first thing in the morning”, he mock scolds Blake.

“Shut it, Rock Star. Everyone and their mother knows ya love ‘Honey Bee’”, the country singer shoots back with a playful smirk.

“No I don’t. I said it once. It just got stuck in my head like a desease. Still haven’t been able to get it out”. Adam rolls his eyes, if only to supress the little giggle that escapes him whenever Blake is being endearingly silly (like now). 

“Sure, honey, I believe ya”. Cue another eyeroll.

Blake narrowly avoids a snort(okay, he snorts a little) and continues singing, loudly and unapologetic this time. He’s practically screaming, in fact. Plus staring a hole through Adam’s head. By all means this should be annoying. It isn’t. Because his lover is so earnestly trying to cheer him up. Instead, it’s sweeeet. So sweet. And hilarious. 

Adam finally laughs. Happiness rippling throughout his body. Everthing is fine. He keeps laughing and can’t seem to stop. Even the country star joins him after a while. 

Bliss. Maybe their jaws and bellies hurt. Yet this moment is for them just that.

It ends. Nothing is everlasting. All humans have is the hope their “forever” will be long enough to leave a mark upon this everchanging world. Or upon the ones they love. That’s how Adam understands it at least. Wait. Could this subject be good for a song? He’d have to ponder over it. Great. He’s tired as hell(nightmares sure don’t help you rest), however, his sonofabitch brain wants to start the whole process of composing right about now. At this godforsaken hour. He can alomst feel the familiar tingle in his fingers that means he HAS to move inmediately. Music has always been the mechanism with which he copes with his shit. Whatever it is. It can be a lot when life has screwed him over so. Music helps him channel a great deal, helps him focus. But his passion is either blessing or curse, depending of the case. Presently, it is the latter. Some things just bite you in the ass no matter how much you set out to curve their nature into usefulness. 

Then, Blake captures his attention once again by gently cupping his cheek with his hand.

“ Adam, ya had a nightmare, right?”.

“I did”. His voice is merely a whisper. He’d hoped to avoid this topic, didn’t want to think of it.

“Him?”, his partner’s tone is serious. 

Adam nodds silently as he lowers his gaze and bites his lips. He’s tense. Blake doesn’t let him be for more than two seconds. Caresses his face and Adam’s back to looking at him with wide eyes. Blake clears his throat before speaking.

“Baby, I wish it had all been different. That ya had never been hurt. Or I’d been there for ya. Hell, there’s many times I just wanna beat that scum(he might as well have spit the word for all the disgust with which he says it) to a pulp, give him what he deserves”.

He flinches a bit at these words, on reflex, and hates himself for it. His boyfriend kisses his forehead to reassure him and continues. 

“But I know none of that crap really helps. The past can’t be changed. No going around it. Even if I think there’s still some legal actions we could take, it has to be yar decision. I only want ya to be okay. I’ll do whatever I have to to make it happen. So please remember yar not alone anymore. I’m walking this long-ass road hand in hand with ya. We’ve chosen each other. Ya don’t have to be afraid of who ya are or how ya react to things or what happens to ya. Ya can talk to me and we can look for a solution. I’m in this with ya until I die. Ya’re the love of my life, Adam. We’re endgame. I know it”.

“I love you too, Big Country”, Adam responds with wet eyes. His heart is so full with love he can’t not cry anew. Happy tears.

They share a kiss that is as much a confirmation of their feelings as it is a promise to forever remain together. The future is uncertain, yes, yet they’re sure they’ll fight tooh and nail for the one beautiful, amazing thing they’ve found. 

When they finish kissing they rest each of their foreheads against the other, eyes closed, relishing in the intimacy of the moment. Time passes quietly and comfortably. A few crickets can be heard in the distance. 

“Do ya want to discuss yar dream now or in the morning?”, Blake asks as he lays tiny pecks on his eyelids and all over his face.

“Stop it”, Adam complains, crinckling his nose in the way he does when he pretends to dislike Blake’s touchy-feely pda. He rationalizes it’s his shyness coming into play.

“Nah”, his partner sentences and sets about making the smooches louder and sloppier. More annoying that is.

“Oh, c’mon, Cowboy Dan, quit it. You’re going to give me cooties”, he jokes knowing full well where it’ll lead to.

“Bit too late for that”.

“I guess. It’s still obnoxious, though”.

“And ya’re still an asshole so ya get tickles”.

“No, wait! Blake, stoooahahahha….”, he cannot escape in time, his boyfriend pinning him to the bed with his larger body, thus he’s tickled mercilessly. Somehow he manages to retaliate by applying the same “punishment” to his partner. They roll around on the matress making a mess of the sheets. Laughter fills the room. Eventually they come to a halt to catch their breath.

“Can we talk in the morning?”, Adam finally answers Blake’s initial question.

“Of course, sweetheart”, his lover says fondly.

“Thanks, babe”, he kisses Blake’s cheek. Then adds: “Can I ask for something else?”.

“Shoot”.

“I don’t wanna go to sleep just yet”.

“What do ya wanna do?”.

“Sing with me?”.

“The neighbours’ll have to suck it, then”, Blake teases. Adam rolls his eyes for the third time in half an hour. “What do ya wanna sing?”.

“You choose”.

“Umn, how about ‘Never gonna leave this bed’? I really like that one”.

“You like most of my songs”.

“True. But that’s one of my favorites”, his partner chuckles. Adam can’t help the big-ass grin forming on his lips.

“Okay”, he says, “let’s do it”.

Both men take in a big gulp of air and start singing. It’s not something they usually do, despite belonging to the music bussiness. Especially in a professional environment. Never have collaborated outside the coach group songs on The Voice. They do have memories of drunken nights and other shenanigans. However seldom this happens, it doesn’t matter. Harmonizing comes easy, their voices seamlessly melting into one. Two heartbeats perfectly in tune. 

As the song ends, they simply pick another and begin again. And again.

Dawn finds them that way, lost in hopeful melodies, fending off invisible demons that’ll never quite leave. Nevermind. Soft light iluminates two sleepless heartbeats which have arrived home. At last.

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes I feel my writing is a tad dry. I hope you enjoyed this nonetheless. I'll just keep at it. Practice makes perfect, they say.  
> Next time I might try my hand at something more smutty, though I'm not so sure since I've never written a decent one before. We'll see, I'll leave my options open.


End file.
